


Things Half in Shadow and Halfway in Light

by Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)



Category: Star Trek: Lower Decks (Cartoon), Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28146540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/pseuds/Gray%20Cardinal
Summary: Mariner thinks courier missions are boring. Boimler isn't so sure. And Rutherford thinks he's seen one of their passengers before.Two of them are right.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Things Half in Shadow and Halfway in Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mylittleredgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/gifts).



> **Acknowledgements:** Star Trek: Lower Decks _is the product of a highly talented (if at least partially weird) collective of talented individuals, without whose efforts we wouldn’t have a series to write fanfic for._
> 
> _This story takes place between the events of “Terminal Provocations” and “Much Ado About Boimler”. I have drawn on a variety of Star Trek lore from both the Memory Alpha and Memory Beta wikis in an effort to be as canon-compliant as possible. There are also significant references here to events occurring in the TNG episodes “Elementary, Dear Data” and “Ship in a Bottle” (although my theories about the latter episode differ markedly from mainstream continuity)._
> 
>  _The title is taken from the lyrics of “Chim Chim Cheree” in the Disney feature version of_ Mary Poppins.

_“Personal log, stardate 57728.1. The_ Cerritos _has just left the Coridan system, where we picked up a shipment of experimental medical technology at the Phlox Institute of Medical Studies. We’re now bound for Vulcan, where our cargo will be delivered to the Vulcan Science Academy. We also have two passengers aboard, accompanying the shipment.”_

#

“Bo-ring!”

Boimler levered himself half-upright in his bunk and glared at Mariner, who was standing in the corridor beside it. “It is not! Dr. Kurland says this is tremendously important research – and if it wasn’t, why would the Vulcans be interested in it?”

“It’s courier duty,” Mariner shot back. “And courier duty is bo-ring. Capital B. Not unlike a certain ensign I know.”

Boimler’s interruption was itself interrupted by Ensign Rutherford’s arrival. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’d swear I’ve seen Dr. Kurland someplace before, but I can’t figure out where.”

Mariner eyed Rutherford skeptically. “Did you try looking him up in Starfleet records?”

“First thing I did,” Rutherford said. “There’s not much there, considering. The file says he’s from Earth. He’s got three doctorates – math, philosophy, and stellar cartography. He’s also supposed to be a genius in spectral dynamics and some kind of high-powered physics. And he’s been asked to lecture at the Daystrom Institute at least twice. But there’s almost nothing about his _life_ life – no family, no personal history, no real resume.”

“That sounds mysterious,” said Boimler. “Like maybe he’s some kind of undercover agent, so unless you have really hot security clearances, all you get is the vanilla file.”

Mariner made a rude noise. “Ha. No real secret agent would have a half-assed record like that – it’d be a dead giveaway. You look at my Starfleet file, it’s got details out the wazoo. A lot of ‘em are totally bogus, but they’ll check out like they’re real. Unless you have really hot security clearances, in which case you get the straight scoop – and then somebody pings back to see whether or not they have to kill you for hacking into my record.”

“Oh, riiight,” Boimler and Rutherford said, in totally accidental perfect harmony.

“I’d tell you all about it,” Mariner replied, grinning, “only then I would have to kill you. And I’d rather not.”

Rutherford sighed. “So what you’re saying is—”

“—that this Dr. Kurland is a geek genius with no social life,” said Mariner. “Just like his file says. Who knows, twenty years from now _your_ Starfleet record may look like that!”

“Thanks a lot,” Rutherford told her, and strode off down the corridor.

Boimler gave Mariner an annoyed look. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“It was a compliment!” Mariner said. “I was telling him he was a genius!”

“Geek genius,” Boimler retorted, “with no social life. Which isn’t even true, really.”

Mariner shrugged. “I don’t know. Tendi could do a lot bet-“

“You really don’t want to finish that sentence, do you?” Boimler cut in, doing his best to sound dangerous.

“Maybe not,” Mariner said, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Boimler decided to let that subject go. “Okay, but what about Dr. Kurland?”

“Geek genius with no social life,” said Mariner. “What’s weird about that?”

Boimler swung out of his bunk. “Maybe nothing. But the Phlox Institute is all about medical research. That doesn’t match any of the fields Rutherford says Kurland is known for. And none of it explains why Rutherford thinks he’s seen him before.”

“Damn,” said Mariner. “That _is_ a little funky. All right, then – you keep an eye on the good doctor, and I’ll poke at his file to see if it squirms.”

“But you said—”

“Poking,” Mariner said primly, “is not hacking. Trust me on this one?”

Boimler shrugged. “Not even a little. If someone shows up to kill you….”

“They won’t. And if they did, they wouldn’t. Trust me on _that_ one?” Mariner’s voice had suddenly developed an edge.

“Totally.”

“Then I think we’ve both got places to be.”

#

“I think we’re being watched.”

The speaker was a willow-figured human woman with short red hair, dressed in a plain two-toned green jumpsuit. She was observing a series of waveform readings on a padd, while her employer ran a compact scanner over a closed container.

“Of course we are,” said Dr. J. M. Kurland, multi-disciplined scientist and self-taught genius. “Young Rutherford has enlisted two of his fellow officers in hopes of jogging his memory – Ensigns Mariner and Boimler, I believe.”

“You’re not worried?”

“I am not. Luckily for us, Mariner has focused Rutherford’s attention on a wholly incorrect theory. She herself is pursuing that same line of thought, and will shortly find it without basis. As for Boimler, he lacks the context to make the correct connection – so long, at least, as he does not jog Rutherford’s notice back toward the truth.”

“I see. Ought we take steps to keep Boimler and Rutherford away from one another, then?”

Dr. Kurland’s lips pursed. “I think not. If any of the three realize even subconsciously that we’re guiding their actions, they’ll escalate matters at once. That would be…unproductive, at best.”

“Very well, then,” the woman said. “And meanwhile?”

“Meanwhile, my dear Madeleine,” said Dr. Kurland, “we continue our work.”

#

_Two days later_

“Well?” asked Boimler, looking across the mess table at Mariner.

Mariner’s expression matched the sauerkraut on her Reuben sandwich. “I poked,” she said. “Nothing poked back. And I mean _nothing_ – which is kinda interesting, actually.”

“I don’t get it,” Rutherford said.

Boimler, however, was nodding. “I think I do. Assuming even a basic security-type systems check, she should have got back _some_ basic data: birth certificate, vehicle or property ownership records, citizenship status, a proper academic record, and so on. If Dr. Kurland’s file is that empty….”

“Then ‘J. M. Kurland’ is an alias,” said Mariner. “Trouble is, my sources can’t tell whose. There’s absolutely no forensic data attached to his record – no DNA, no fingerprints, no ophthalmic patterns, not even a scrap. And that just shouldn’t be possible.”

“He can’t just be a figment of our imaginations,” Boimler objected. “I’ve seen him going back and forth from his quarters to Cargo Bay Three.”

“So have I,” said Rutherford. “His assistant, too – Ms. Verlaine, isn’t it?”

Mariner’s head bobbed. “That’s what the logs show, but her profile’s even skinnier than the doctor’s.”

Rutherford suddenly sat up straighter. “Wait, say that again.”

“Her profile’s even skinnier than the doctor’s.”

“That rings a bell, somehow,” Rutherford said. “The doctor’s. The Doctor – omigod!”

Boimler blinked. “The who?”

“No,” said Rutherford, “ _Doctor Who._ British television show, ran for better than sixty years back at the turn of the millennium. Quite a lot of the shows have been converted to holodeck modules. The Doctor character was a Time Lord – alien, two hearts, and the power to change form whenever they needed to replace the lead actor.”

Mariner’s expression was incredulous. “So you think Dr. Kurland is a Time Lord?”

Rutherford shook his head. “No, no, no. But think about it: what looks like a human, walks like a human, but doesn’t have DNA or fingerprints?”

Boimler and Mariner stared at one another. It was Boimler who got the words out. “A holodeck character?”

“Exactly!” Rutherford said.

Mariner frowned. “Fine,” she said, “except how do you get a holodeck character off the holodeck without him fizzing into nothing?”

Rutherford grinned. “Personally, I have no clue,” he said. “But it _has_ been done. Remember _Voyager_? Its emergency medical hologram came back with a mobile emitter that lets him go anywhere he likes. Evidently that one was future-tech, and so far no one’s managed to copy it.”

“You mean no one anybody knows about,” put in Boimler. “If you’re right, Kurland – whoever he is – cracked the problem.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” said Rutherford. “The mobile emitter’s the cleanest approach, but I can think of at least two other ways somebody might get there. It would take a 24-karat genius to do it, though, whichever method you were trying.”

Now Boimler’s expression turned puzzled. “That makes sense. But where do you get a super-intelligent holodeck character with the tech chops to program himself off the holodeck without getting caught? Not even a Badgey ought to be that smart.”

“Oh. My. God.”

Boimler and Rutherford stared at Mariner, whose eyes had gone wider than should have been humanly possible. They spoke as one. “What?”

“It’s impossible,” Mariner said. “It has to be. But it would make so much sense….”

“What’s impossible?” That was Boimler.

“It was on the _Enterprise_ ,” said Mariner, in a rushed and wildly uncharacteristic burble. “Riker talked about it. But he said they locked him in a data solid, so there’s no way….”

Rutherford spoke as calmly as he could. “Locked who?”

“Moriarty,” said Mariner, still breathless. “Professor James Moriarty. Out of Sherlock Holmes.”

“ _The_ Professor Moriarty?” Boimler demanded. “The Napoleon of Crime? We’re in so much trouble now….”

Rutherford looked thoughtful. “Maybe. And maybe not.”

“What??” This time it was Mariner and Boimler in two-part chorus.

“First things first,” said Rutherford. “Now I know why Kurland looked familiar. The basic _Enterprise_ Sherlock Holmes program is still in Starfleet’s holo-archives; I reviewed it not too long ago. But the story I heard was that their self-aware Moriarty was a unique extrapolation, spun off from the original program. Engineering evidently spent quite a lot of time after both his incursions working out what had happened and – briefly – trying to give him what he wanted, on Picard’s direct orders.”

Slowly, Mariner nodded. “The first time – yes.”

“And the second, they decoyed him into that data solid,” said Rutherford. “Or at least they thought they did.”

“Thought they did?”

Rutherford returned Mariner’s nod. “That part bothers me. If Moriarty was as clever as his initial programming implied, he should’ve foreseen the trick Picard pulled on him. I’d give a lot to see the first-hand visual logs of that whole sequence of events. If I’m right, the Moriarty and Countess in that data solid are copies, and that whole episode was engineered to make Captain Picard _think_ he’d solved his problem once and for all.”

“That makes my head hurt,” said Boimler.

“Yeah, recursive thinking does that after about the third twist,” Rutherford said.

“Yes, well,” Mariner put in, “that still leaves us with a Professor and Countess here on the _Cerritos_ , plotting who knows what. Do we just let them get away with it?”

Rutherford was silent for a moment. “Get away with what? Are they violating any Federation law that we know of, just by being here?”

“That’s a point,” Boimler said, looking thoughtful. “Plus which – Mariner, do you remember who at the Phlox Institute was supervising our guests and their cargo?”

Mariner blinked. “I think – oh, right, a Dr. Pulaski.”

“Aha,” said Rutherford. “Specifically, Dr. Katherine Pulaski. Wasn’t she on the _Enterprise_ during Professor Moriarty’s first uprising?”

“Oh, Hell,” said Mariner. “Yes, she was right in the middle of it. Which means whatever ‘Dr. Kurland’ is up to now, she knows exactly what it is…and she’s on board with it.”

Rutherford’s smile was crooked, but sincere. “Then I think we let things lie. Whatever else Moriarty is here and now, he’s obviously a 24-karat genius, and I’d rather not have one of those annoyed at me if I can help it.”

“No kidding,” Mariner said. “Okay, hands off it is.”

“Agreed,” said Boimler. “Except – you don’t suppose he’d be willing to give out autographs?”

Rutherford and Mariner glared at him. “Do you _really_ want to ask him that?”

“I – suppose not.”

As one, the trio rose, heading for the replicators to return their dishes.

#

_Two days later_

Boimler was grinning as he strode into the mess, and headed at once for the table where Mariner, Rutherford, and Tendi were already assembled. He flourished a large cream-colored envelope edged with crisp golden engraving, with _ENSIGN BRADWARD BOIMLER_ inscribed in ornate calligraphy across its front.

“This was in my bunk this morning when I woke up,” he said. “One guess where it came from.”

Mariner glared at him. “Let’s see it.”

“Absolutely.” Boimler flicked open the flap and withdrew the envelope’s contents: a single sheet of paper, its design and weight perfectly matched to the envelope, and eight small cards of a stiffer, sturdier paper stock. He unfolded the paper, and four heads leaned over the table to read what was written thereon:

#

**To my young investigators:**

_I must congratulate you on unraveling the puzzle of my identity. I thought it reasonably secure behind my chosen alias, but clearly I have underestimated my own notoriety even in this time and place._

_More, I must compliment you on your discretion. I admit to having presumed, based on the aforementioned notoriety, that my very existence in this time and place would be greeted with displeasure at best, if not outright pursuit with intent at permanent confinement. I am delighted to discern, based on your thoughtful and temperate restraint, that I may have a measure of support from Federation authorities at such time as I choose to make my presence fully known._

_If you will allow it, I would correct two small points in the summary of events as you have reconstructed it. First, regarding the data solid created at the conclusion of my second foray: there are no sentient characters therein. I could not in conscience create such entities and then confine them more closely than even I had been confined._

_Second: the Countess Regina Bartholomew does not exist, and never has – but the woman whose mind lies behind that role is as real as I. Doubtless some students of the relevant mythology will believe her an incarnation of Irene Adler; they are wrong as well, though there are certain resonances which might be acknowledged. She is her own woman, and though we are allies in many ways, romantic partnership is not one of them._

_As you will realize on receiving this message, my powers of observation and insight are considerable. Though I present the appearance of mortal flesh in order to walk among the living worlds, I am by nature something of a phantom, intangible and rare, if not quite unique. There are aspects of my existence I dare not reveal even now, and I hope you will hold such knowledge close should you achieve it by your own efforts._

_Most sincerely yours,_

_James Clovis Moriarty_

#

There was a brief hush as the four ensigns finished reading. Then:

“Seriously cool,” said Mariner.

“Amazing,” said Boimler.

“Oh, wow,” said Rutherford.

“Who’s this Moriarty guy?” asked Tendi.

Rutherford laughed. “Obviously _not_ the Napoleon of crime,” he said. “At least not in this universe.”

“Riker’s gonna be so pissed he missed this,” said Mariner.

“A 24-karat genius,” said Boimler, scooping up two of the little visiting cards. Two lines of text were printed on each:

_James Clovis Moriarty  
Scientific Consultant_

_Madeleine Verlaine  
Intuitive Artiste_

“I think,” said Rutherford, “you can count that as an autograph.”

“I think I’ll have to,” said Boimler, “considering they beamed down to Vulcan two hours ago.”

“I hope the Vulcans are ready for them,” said Mariner.

“I hope we see them again,” said Tendi. “They seem like such _interesting_ people.”

Mariner, Boimler, and Rutherford all stared at Tendi. Their words emerged in three-part harmony:

“You have _no_ idea.”

# # #


End file.
